“Caw,” he said. “Caw, Caw.”
Dank mist embraced the hilltops like a shroud. Cold scraped at my bones, grating like the coarse tongue of an old fishwife. The sea, grey as a dirge, slapped the craggy coastline. I turned up my collar, waiting for Coinneach Crow to fix his gaze on the horizon. That would be the sign.
A gull swooped, impatiently. Oyster catchers peet peeted. The cormorant, from rocky-cliff nest of seaweed, stretched out its long neck and peered with beady eye, “is he ready?”
A glimmer brightened the eastern sky, shifting colors from aquas to jades. Olive seas turned emerald, shimmering. Sands glistened; gems, topaz, diamonds.
“Caw.” He was ready. Coinneach fixed his gaze.
“I am Coinneach!” he said.
Sand whipped around my legs, as a breeze stirred.
“Coinneach will only prophecy for the greater good,” he cawed in low drones, before spelling out all the answers that you await so eagerly.
(Call back tomorrow - Jean at the wool shop will have your answers typed up.)
1 comment:
Birdstard!!!!!!!!
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